grow up

in park after dark

sat on top bench.

i heart whoever initials

a true felt 

f you

carved into rotting wood.

a social meeting point for the—

should be trying to live

will lead to a dead end.

these older boys  

with single mothers

and hand me down afflictions

hang out

beneath leafless branches like bats.

because they never had no

curfews

and always carry on their

person

what they need to stay on top bench:

eighth of smoke

bump of speed

flick knife to let someone know

if they have to.

empty heads are never filled with any dreams.

nodding and spitting

at each other’s jokes about the other

skin grows thicker.

talk about where they are

is the sound of places

they’ll never go.

shit goes on

until the teen dreams arrive

from single-decker buses

in pairs of two

the odd three.

tight denim and perfumed up

cherry lip-sticked fake hair extensions.

they do not wish

to think any better

of the boys they have come to see on top bench.

cans of Stella and bottled cider gone well flat

one of the girls takes a ride back from a pissed up head.

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